


out on the verge

by gdgdbaby



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Crossdressing, Getting Together, Halloween, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-02 10:14:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16303232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: The truth is that Los Angeles is beautiful and lonely, picture-perfect like he's seen in all the postcards, all the movies, but artificial in a way that makes his teeth hurt. Spencer keeps saying that it takes time, that Lovett has to let it settle into his bones first, but he's never been a patient person. The truth is the vast majority of his people are here, in this swampy cesspool of a city. The truth is he left for a bunch of reasons—some of them even good ones—and yet every other weekend he feels like a ridiculous cross-country boomerang. Just can't stay gone.





	out on the verge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joshlymanwalkandtalk (Joshlymanwalkandtalk)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joshlymanwalkandtalk/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Sharpened Points of a Cupid’s Bow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12731022) by [joshlymanwalkandtalk (Joshlymanwalkandtalk)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joshlymanwalkandtalk/pseuds/joshlymanwalkandtalk). 



> alyssa! it was difficult to choose which story of yours to swan dive into and play around with, but i hope you enjoy this remix :D ♥ title from "verge" by owl city.

Lovett catches the red-eye into DC on Thursday night before Halloween weekend. It's his third time back since moving in September, so no one's at the airport to pick him up when he gets off the plane. He takes a taxi to 1309 instead, peering out the window at the rain peppering the streets, and manages to intercept the guys before they head to work.

Tommy answers the door. "It's like you never even left," he says, grinning as he steps aside and lets Lovett shove his carry-on over the threshold.

"LA's awful," Lovett says, managing to keep a straight face. He makes a beeline for the kitchen, where he can both hear and smell Michael's espresso machine going. "It's sunny like, all the time."

"Fuck you," Cody says, good-natured, at the same time Michael passes him a cup of coffee and says, "You do look tanner."

"Mike, my only friend," Lovett says, magnanimous. He leans back against the counter and brings the mug to his mouth. "I'm going to drink this and crash on one of the only pieces of furniture in this house that still belongs to me."

"You abandoned them here, so technically they're our couches now," Tommy points out, and grins again when Lovett flips him off.

 

 

Friday is nominally supposed to be for tying up loose ends on the storage unit he's been renting out while transitioning through the move. There's also the flimsy excuse of all the Halloween parties Lovett had RSVP'd yes to before he'd ironed out exactly when he'd be leaving.

In actuality, everything he's come back for over the past month probably could have been done remotely, from the comfort of his new rental house in West Hollywood. The truth is that Los Angeles is beautiful and lonely, picture-perfect like he's seen in all the postcards, all the movies, but artificial in a way that makes his teeth hurt. Spencer keeps saying that it takes time, that Lovett has to let it settle into his bones first, but he's never been a patient person. The truth is the vast majority of his people are here, in this swampy cesspool of a city. The truth is he left for a bunch of reasons—some of them even good ones—and yet every other weekend he feels like a ridiculous cross-country boomerang. Just can't stay gone.

Southern California weather _is_ great, though. He won't lie about that. _felt a pang of longing for weho while schlepping a duffle bag through this miserable storm to the bus station_ , he messages Spencer in the afternoon, after he's turned his key in, on the ride back to the townhouse. Spencer texts him a photo out the window of his office at Lionsgate, palm trees lining the back parking lot, and Lovett replies with a string of angry emojis.

 _hey_ , his phone pings before he can lock it again. It's from Jon, and Lovett thumbs open the message chain to read it. _tommy said you got back this morning, are you gonna be at ben's tonight?_

 _planning to attend_ , Lovett types back, stomach clenching despite himself. _gonna wow me with your costume, favreau?_ Classically, Jon's gone the path of least resistance when it comes to Halloween costumes; last year, he glued a bunch of nickels to the back of a t-shirt and said he was dressed up as Nickelback. Awful.

 _haha_ , Jon sends, and Lovett can hear his creaky laugh in his head, clear as day. _come and see._

 

 

There aren't a lot of options for extravagant costume design when most of Lovett's wardrobe is on the other coast, but he did bring enough with him to make do. He's putting on the final touches when the others trickle in from work.

"What are you supposed to be?" Cody says, poking his head into the bathroom, where Lovett's adjusting the rainbow flag he's tied around his shoulders.

Lovett gestures down at the screaming emoji he's printed out and taped to a black shirt. "Gay panic," he says, smirking when Cody groans. "Limited resources, and I didn't have the skills to put on lion face-paint for gay pride."

The rain's mostly stopped by the time they spill out onto the sidewalk to trudge to Ben's apartment in Dupont Circle. The rest of the city's starting to come alive with other party goers, but they're still pretty early. Lovett gets roped into helping prep a station in the dining room for pumpkin carving; he trades handshakes and half-hugs with too many people to count once the place begins filling up.

"Long time no see," Alyssa says when she spots him in the kitchen, smiling around the rim of her drink. Her cat ear headband is already starting to slip a little, and Lovett reaches out to readjust it.

"I missed your six AM wake-up calls on the road too much to stay away," Lovett says drily. He nods down at the black dress she's wearing, sequined patterns running up the sides. "You look cute."

"Save it," she says, a sly twist to her mouth. "Wait till you see Favs."

There's no actual sign of him until well past nine. Lovett's commandeered a corner of the big living room couch with one of Michael's friends from defense, chatting about Magic: the Gathering and nursing his third vodka and coke, when there's a commotion at the front door. "Holy shit, Favreau," someone says over the music. There's scattered wolf-whistling as the crowd of people parts like the fucking Red Sea.

For a moment, Lovett isn't sure what he's looking at, and then Jon—and it _is_ Jon, underneath the foundation and eyeshadow and dark red lipstick—turns his head. He's wearing a wig, long and wavy and blond, and he's in a shimmery silver maxi dress with a slit that goes all the way up to mid-thigh. As Lovett watches, Jon tilts his head back to laugh at a murmured comment that Lovett's too far away to hear, the column of his throat working, nose scrunched, mouth spread wide to reveal the even set of his teeth, gap and all. The swish of the hem of the dress reveals matching silver pumps on Jon's feet. Lovett's certainly seen more of Jon's skin before, but something about this is just—God. It's unfair, really, how hot he looks, even if he can barely walk properly in those shoes.

"Please tell me no one photographed you on the way here," Dan calls from the back of the room, setting off another round of laughter. "I don't know that I could take the news cycle."

Jon's eyes crinkle. "No Politico articles about this, Dan, don't worry. I learned my lesson."

Tommy emerges a second later to sling an arm over Jon's shoulder. "I wasn't sure you would actually do it," he says, pink-cheeked. "Let's get you a drink."

"Well," Lovett says, sinking back into the couch, scratchy fabric of his flag digging into his throat. The guy from defense is gone, replaced by Ben, Dracula cape askew, and Shomik, who's doublefisting a Bud Light and some hot cider. "That was something."

Shomik props his feet up on the coffee table. "I heard he lost a bet."

"Oh, yeah," Ben says, "that sounds familiar," and it does, now that someone's brought it up—Lovett remembers hearing about it in the spring, or maybe early summer, the latest in a long line of wagers that Jon and Tommy have made with each other over the years. Usually they were about sports, so Lovett didn't pay attention to the details; maybe, this time, he should have.

"What were the terms?" Lovett says, and if his voice comes out a little too squeaky, no one calls him out on it.

"No idea," Shomik says with a shrug. "You could ask."

 

 

Tommy, as it turns out, has made himself incredibly difficult to track down, which is saying something considering his costume involves a literal light-up football helmet. Lovett ends up detouring to the bathroom first, to splash some water in his face and figure out if the churning in his stomach is a result of foolishly mixing alcohols or something else.

When he gets back out, Jen and Samantha rope him into a round of apple bobbing that leaves his head spinning. He's good enough to place second on the running leaderboard ("Big mouths will do that," Cody opines, and gets a swift kick to the shin for good measure) and promises to come back and challenge for first if Eric doesn't get knocked down within the next hour. His face hurts from laughing, and the top of his shirt is completely drenched, collar chafing against his neck.

He volunteers to look for fresh towels. There aren't any in the kitchen or the back closet, so Lovett pushes into Ben's dark bedroom, a last ditch attempt to find something in the master bath. The window to the fire escape has been pushed open, letting the chilly October breeze indoors.

Lovett sticks his head out and peers down, and—of course it's Jon. His shoes and his wig have been discarded on the platform, and his bare feet are dangling out past the latticed metal. From the back, Lovett can see the way the straps of the dress are cutting into his shoulders, his skin flushed from the cold, muscles moving as he leans back on his hands.

Jon must hear his sharp intake of breath, because he looks up toward the window. The startled look on his face smooths out into a smile. "Hey, Lovett."

"Hey," Lovett says, climbing out after him before he can second-guess himself. Might as well go straight to the source. "Isn't it cold?"

"Just needed to get some air," Jon says. He shrugs, and one of the straps of his dress slips down to reveal a dusky nipple.

Lovett swallows thickly, glancing down at the street. "You look, uh. You looked good," he says, gesturing blindly at the wig and the heels.

Jon's ducking his head when Lovett looks up again, the corner of his mouth rising higher. "Yeah? Thought it might've been a bit much. Should've practiced walking around more."

Lovett snorts. "Don't be ridiculous, you always look good." There are plenty of other questions Lovett has for him, much more important things to talk about, but the first one that comes out is, "Who did your makeup for you?"

"Uh," Jon says, the dark line of his mascara fluttering against his cheek. His lipstick has mostly been wiped off by now, either from drinks or the way Jon chews on his lips sometimes, but the eye makeup is holding steady. "Alyssa helped?"

"Cool," Lovett says, halting. "She did a good job."

They lapse into silence again, and it's not uncomfortable, exactly, but it isn't easy either. The last time he felt like this in conversation with Jon, Lovett was trying to figure out how to tell him he was leaving. It wasn't that he thought Jon would stop him, or that he would demand answers to questions that Lovett wasn't sure he could answer yet—it was just hard, when you'd been standing still for so long, to gather enough energy to push a ball into forward motion. He'd ended up blurting it out in the middle of prep for some energy speech, the two of them burning the midnight oil for the third time that week. _Oh_ , Jon said, eyes wide over the draft he was marking up. _Hollywood?_ and Lovett had nodded, heart tangled in his throat, because it was the easiest explanation. _You need to do this_ , Jon said, and Lovett had looked up at his soft, open, endlessly compassionate expression and said, _Yes_.

"Whose idea was this, anyway?" Lovett asks at last, reaching out to flick a corner of the dress bunched up beneath Jon.

Jon makes a face. "Lost a bet with Tommy," he says, tipping his head back to stare up at the slats above them. Lovett's gaze lands on Jon's five o'clock shadow and doesn't budge, because a month away isn't nearly enough time to get over that.

"What, the Red Sox didn't win by as much as you expected?" Lovett licks his lips as Jon shakes his head and laughs. "Home runs? That's baseball, right?"

"Yes, Lovett," Jon says, eyes crinkled. "That's baseball. The payout was that I'd have to wear whatever costumes Tommy's picked all weekend, so if you're staying through Monday, you'll have more of this to look forward to." His tone turns dry. "Great weekend to have you back."

"Oh, lovely," Lovett says, voice cracking. "Well, let me know if you need any help with anything tomorrow. I have a bit of experience in the makeup department. College, you know."

"Is that so," Jon says, sounding kind of choked. "I can't be sure, but I think tomorrow might be some sort of Playboy Bunny get-up? He hasn't given me the costume yet."

"Dan might have a conniption," Lovett says, equal parts astounded and impressed. "Look, are we sure Tommy isn't just super kinky? What the heck did you lose?"

Jon laughs again, quieter this time. "It's not a big deal," he says, too light to be true. "It was actually about you. The bet."

"What," Lovett squawks, elbowing Jon's side on instinct, chest lurching in that way it always does when he's not sure if he's being included in the joke or if he's the butt of it. "Now you have to tell me, unless you want me to ask—"

"I know, I know," Jon says, warm. "We agreed that if I, ah, hadn't told you how I felt by the time you moved, he'd pick out my costumes."

"How you felt," Lovett repeats. "About—"

"About you," Jon finishes. He's not looking at Lovett, hunched forward, huddled small in the dress, bare ankles crossed. He's shivering a little, now, goosebumps risen on his arms.

Lovett feels, curiously, as though he's floating above it all, disbelief creating an odd sort of out-of-body experience, watching the two of them swinging their legs on Ben's fire escape. Faintly, he can hear the intermingling music from the other house parties happening on this block, the noise of the occasional car crunching down the main street. There's something cinematic about the moment, the hushed quiet after a confession, that Lovett would be trying to figure out how to capture for his own writing if his ears weren't ringing so loudly.

"Since when," Lovett says at last.

"Lovett—"

"When?"

Jon takes a deep breath, exhales it back out. "Do you remember," he says slowly, "we were working on the first state of the union last year, and we were all running on about four hours of sleep, and you came to find me in the Starbucks on Pennsylvania Avenue." He chuckles, almost to himself, chin curled into his chest. "You made me give a fifty dollar tip to the last barista who stayed like, two hours past closing so I could keep working."

"Yeah," Lovett says, digging his nerveless fingers into his sweatpants. "I do remember."

"You got me home, made me get in bed, and then you and Cody worked on the last piece of editing before we sent it off to the President for a final passthrough. You were sick for two days after that because you were inexplicably wearing shorts and socks with sandals in January." Jon's gazing straight at him now, and Lovett almost wishes he'd look away again; surely this would be easier to deal with if the full brunt of Jon's attention wasn't focused all on him, if he wasn't telling this story like it was something well worn and well-loved. "Maybe it started before then," he continues, "but that was when it kind of clicked for me. The first time." He scrubs his palms from his shoulders down the raised bumps on his arms, straightens his spine and swings his legs back up onto the ledge. "Anyway, it doesn't matter, we can just—"

"Jesus," Lovett cuts in, tremulous. Jon opens his mouth, brows slanted with concern, and Lovett waves him quiet. "No—don't say anything." All the words he's been writing lately have been fiction, for entertainment, with none of the gravitas of the speechwriting he did for six years; it's no wonder he's struggling to think of the right ones for this. "Of course it matters. I moved across the country so I could—so I could do this thing that I wanted so badly, but you know why I keep coming back?" Jon shakes his head, eyes wide. "I can't seem to stay the fuck away from you."

"Lovett," Jon says. Something breaks open across his face, a bright crest of hope so strong that Lovett flinches, can't help it.

"You idiot," Lovett mutters, but there's barely any heat to it, and he means Jon but also himself, trapped in the familiarity of the status quo, too afraid to leap. "We could've been doing this for years."

"I mean, yeah, maybe, but I was your boss," Jon tries, half-hearted.

Lovett would be mad about it if he wasn't so fond. "You're not my boss anymore," he says, heart pounding wildly in his chest, so tight it feels like it might burst. He leans forward to cup the slope of Jon's bare neck with one careful hand, savors the way Jon leans into it, watches his lips curve up. "You better take me home tonight."

"I think I can arrange that," Jon says solemnly, cold fingers curling around Lovett's wrist, and pitches forward to press their mouths together.

 

 

Jon finds a long camel coat in Ben's closet to appropriate when they climb back in through the window, and they manage to make it out of the party without attracting much notice, thanks in part due to Axe's timely arrival and a flurry of requests to play beer pong. They still have the mental fortitude to keep their hands to themselves on the cab ride back to Jon's building, but Lovett keeps catching Jon sneaking glances over at him, like he can't believe this is actually happening. Every time their eyes meet, Lovett feels it like a jolt of electricity.

Jon's apartment looks about the same. To be fair, even if he'd remodeled the entire place since September, Lovett would be too distracted to notice; the minute they step through the door, Lovett flings his rainbow flag cape aside and starts peeling Jon's coat off. In all of Lovett's daydreams about this, he didn't think Jon would be wearing a dress, but he's not complaining about it.

"Hey," Jon says, half-laughing, hands settling on Lovett's hips. "We have all night. Slow down."

"Shan't," Lovett says, leaning up to kiss him again. In the privacy of Jon's living room, it's easier to process the little details: the scratch of Jon's stubble against Lovett's chin, the hot slide of their tongues against each other, the leftover waxy flavor of the lipstick Jon had put on at the beginning of the night. When they break apart, they're both panting. "I'd like to state for the record that you look hot as hell in a dress, and I want to take it off you now."

Jon inhales sharply and walks them back toward—a wall, or maybe a door, something flat, and it's nothing at all for him to tuck his arms beneath Lovett's thighs and lift him up. Lovett lets out an ignominious noise, legs closing around Jon's back, fingers digging into Jon's shoulders. Jon shifts forward until Lovett can barely breathe, thoroughly pinned. When their hips slot together, he can tell Jon's gratifyingly hard.

"Shit," Lovett hisses. He closes his eyes and lets the back of his head knock against the wall for a moment. "Why are we both still wearing anything?"

Jon tucks his face into Lovett's neck and chuckles, breath hot against the shell of Lovett's ear. "Patience, Lovett."

Lovett wiggles in Jon's grasp, rocking his hips forward, feeling recklessly smug when Jon bites back a gasp. "You worked with me for three years," Lovett huffs. "You know that's not my style."

Jon makes a humming noise, hefting Lovett higher. Lovett lets him hold them still for a minute longer, Jon breathing him in, and then he sighs, pitching his voice low.

"Haven't we waited long enough?"

Jon pulls back to look at him, eyes glittering in the low light. "Yeah," he says, and it's a wonder he doesn't trip all over the billowing skirt tangled around his legs as he swings them both toward the bedroom. He deposits Lovett on the bed first, turns the bedside lamp on before stepping back to unzip and shimmy out of the dress. He's wearing— _Christ_ —lacy women's underwear beneath it, his erection pushing out at the crotch, tip shiny where it's poking up over the waistband.

Lovett's entire throat goes dry. "We should really have a chat with Tommy later," he says gustily.

Jon's laughing when he steps out of the panties, dick as beautiful as the rest of him, and bends over to help Lovett out of his clothes. They should also have a chat about how little time it takes Jon to divest Lovett of them, but that's a conversation for another time. Right now is for kissing the rest of the lipstick off Jon's mouth and smudging his silver eyeshadow, for pulling him down and sucking marks into the long line of his neck, for sliding his fingers through the hair Jon started growing out over the summer, anchoring his hands there as Jon ducks down to tongue at Lovett's dick.

"Fuck," Lovett says, trying very hard not to buck his hips. "Have you done this before?"

Jon shakes his head, licks his lips. "You might have to teach me," he says, and then he lifts Lovett's cock off his stomach and fits his mouth around the tip, just holds it there for a moment. Jon's always been pretty, but he looks especially pretty like this, glancing up through his thick lashes, the mascara clumping them together.

Lovett drops one hand to thumb at the corner of Jon's mouth as he bobs his head lower. "That—that's good," he says, voice trembling, and makes an embarrassing noise when Jon sinks down further and hollows his cheeks, wet and sloppy. "You know, it's patently unfair that you're—fucking good at this, too—without even trying—"

Jon pulls off a little, tongue curling around the head, and then sinks back down, almost choking. Lovett pants, hands slipping around Jon's neck, his abdomen already starting to tighten. Jon lets out a confused sound when Lovett tugs him back up to kiss.

"If you wanna fuck me," Lovett says, relishing the way Jon's flushes a darker pink, "you're gonna have to stop doing that before I come." He scans Jon's face, watching his expression change. "I mean—if you want to. Do you have stuff?"

"I—yeah," Jon says, flushing even more. "Yeah. I've practiced a bit. On myself."

"Noted," Lovett says. He leans up to kiss the corner of Jon's mouth, reaches out to pat his flank. "You'll have to show me next time."

Jon smiles at him and leans over to rummage through his bedside cabinet, torso twisting. It feels revelatory to let himself watch Jon as much as he wants after so long trying not to. He's like a sculpture come to life, bronzed and perfect. Jon catches him staring when he comes back up with lube and a condom packet. "What?"

"Nothing," Lovett says automatically, and then shakes his head. "Sorry, I just—" He ducks, suddenly self-conscious. "I've thought about this a lot. I didn't think I'd ever get a chance to—you know. Realize my vision."

"Lovett," Jon says, dropping over him, and they're kissing again, somehow more desperate than all the other times combined. Lovett gets a hand on Jon's dick this time, too dry to be satisfying, but Jon groans into his mouth anyway.

At some point, Jon manages to uncap the bottle of lube and drizzle some into his hands, because a slick, blunt finger bumps up against his asshole. "Yeah, that's it," Lovett says, encouraging. "You don't have to worry about breaking me. I kind of like it when it hurts a little."

Jon lets out a puff of laughter against Lovett's cheek. "Do you?" he says, twisting two fingers inside him fast enough that Lovett's head spins.

"Oh," Lovett says, jaw going slack. "Quick learner."

"Yeah," Jon says, sounding pleased. He fingers him open with the same sort of meticulous care Lovett's seen him reserve for the most serious assignments at work, tongue trapped between his teeth, and that's almost enough to send Lovett over the edge.

"Okay," Lovett says, squeezing Jon's neck, breathing hard. "Okay, that's enough."

Jon fishes the condom out from the sheets, hands shaking just a bit as he rips the package open and rolls it on. He bites his lip as he squeezes more lube out onto his palm, jacks himself twice before he leans over to press their foreheads together, so tender that Lovett wants to smack him.

And then—finally, God—Jon's sliding into him, steady and relentless, stretching Lovett out and splitting him open. By the time Jon fits himself all the way in, Lovett feels so fucking full, weighed down into the mattress and surrounded by warmth. His dick is so hard it hurts, trapped between their stomachs.

"Okay?" Jon asks, and his voice sounds like it's coming from very far off, echoing through the tiny distance between them.

"Yeah," Lovett says. "Move?"

Jon listens to him, rolling his hips, and Lovett's breath hitches with every shallow thrust. It's all he can do to just lie there and take it, take everything Jon's giving him. His body can't figure out what sensation to focus on, so it tries to process all of them at once—the inexorable press inside him, the solid body draped over his, Jon's mouth nibbling at his chin and his throat and his collarbone. The feeling of being pinned and totally taken apart, fucked so slow and so hard that Lovett can feel it rattling in his back teeth.

Lovett comes without warning, the wave of it crashing over him too quickly to do anything but arch into it, face half-turned into the pillows beneath his head. He can't make out what Jon's murmuring into his ear, but he can feel the way Jon's losing the rhythm, the push of his hips erratic until he moves against Lovett one last time, groaning, and falls still.

He'll complain about how close they're pressed in a minute, the sticky catch of their skin rubbing together, but for now, Lovett thinks, letting his eyes drift shut: he's exactly where he wants to be.

 

 

The buzzer wakes them up the next morning, jagged noise cutting through Lovett's hangover. Jon groans, untangling their legs and pressing an indulgent kiss to Lovett's temple, and wraps himself in a sheet to go answer the door. Lovett starfishes on the bed for five more minutes, luxuriating in the pleasant soreness in his limbs when he stretches. Then he pulls on his underwear, plus one of Jon's shirts from the pile of passably clean laundry perched on an armchair, and shuffles into the living room.

Tommy's standing in front of the TV, hands on his hips, a windswept air about him. "Oh," he says when he sees Lovett, eyebrows rising to the vicinity of his hairline, a smirk spreading across his face. "No wonder you never made it back last night."

"I could have stayed over for entirely platonic reasons," Lovett says archly. Jon, perched on the couch, sends him a hangdog look, and Lovett folds like a deck of cards. "But I didn't. Not that it's any of your business, Tommy."

Tommy rolls his eyes and gestures at the big paper bag on the coffee table. "That's what he's supposed to wear tonight to our party," he says. "But out of the kindness of my heart, and since you and Lovett seem to have figured your shit out, I'll let you off the—"

"Wait, no," Lovett interrupts, peering into the bag and lifting out a black bunny-ear headband. "I'm deeply invested in seeing you in this costume. A bet's a bet. No take-backs."

"God, you're the worst," Jon says, grimacing for two seconds before his expression dissolves into a smile. He tilts his head so Lovett can fit the headband on.

"You love me for it," Lovett says, a burst of warmth settling in his chest.

Tommy makes a gagging sound behind them. Jon grins, beatific. "Yeah," he says. "I do."


End file.
